


Lack of Civilization

by the_tilly



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bored Jaskier, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Geralt loves Jaskier's scent, Hair-pulling, He won't admit it though, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jaskier being a flirt, Jaskier knows, Jealousy, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, NOT FROM THE BOYS, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Rough Kissing, Scent Kink, Teasing, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unsafe Sex, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), one bed, protective Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_tilly/pseuds/the_tilly
Summary: In which Geralt and Jaskier are stuck in a small village with no entertainment and end up finding out some interesting things about each other. Prompts: Ch1 First time & Scent Kink | Ch2 Jealousy & Pining | Ch3 Drunken Confessions & Dirty Talk
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 1649





	1. Lack of Civilization: First time & Scent Kink

When traveling on the road as often as a witcher does, it doesn’t leave much time for life’s little pleasures. The taverns, while plenty, seldom had any of the entertainment a lonely man would look for. When it was found it had to be paid for by coin, which wasn’t often earned on the main roads. This became a problem that steadily grew over the years and it wasn’t unusual for Geralt to go without for weeks, or months.

This did change in odd ways when Jaskier started to travel with him. As loud and annoying as the bard was, with a mouth that never stopped speaking about whatever his eyes happen to catch, he was a provider of coins. Geralt could stick to the main roads with Jaskier around as the money he could not make from contracts, were made up for when they stopped in an area. Jaskier would do his routine of rousing the locals into a bit of song, and prance about as though everyone were his friend.

He seldom had empty pockets these days.

Geralt did find it oddly uncomfortable allowing the bard to pay for their rooms when money became tight. If Jaskier didn’t complain at end about the camping, the smell, or the bug bites, Geralt would gladly sleep outdoors. However, he would then have to listen to Jaskier prattle on about whatever bites he got, asking every hour if Geralt thought he might die from it.

Best to keep his mouth shut and let the bard spend his coin how he liked.

Except this time, there was only a small room with furs on the ground as bedding. And the locals were unfriendly, even to Jaskier. Normally this wouldn’t be too much of a problem, except they had been travelling for two weeks without anyone else. And that makes Jaskier more annoying than usual.

“You would think at least one person in this town would have an appreciation for music,” Jaskier griped, letting himself into the small room with two mugs. “To think! They must not have entertainment often and yet they insist in quiet! Silence! It’s maddening.”

Geralt didn’t reply, just took the offered mug, and started to drink it. Over the years he learned it was best to let Jaskier get it all out. If he tried to stop him, it would only get worse, and Geralt wanted sleep sometime tonight.

“I’ve never had a whole room just… _leave_ ,” Jaskier plopped down on the furs next to Geralt, their shoulders bumping, and Geralt gritting his teeth as his mug almost spilled from the movement. “Two cords in, and they all just get up. And go home.” Jaskier stared at the wall for a few seconds, then turned to Geralt with a determined expression.

Geralt hated it when that happened. It always meant uncomfortable questions.

“Have I lost my touch? Is it my clothes?” Jaskier asks, though he doesn’t wait for a response. “What if my outfit is all wrong and everyone thinks I’m just some… amateur. Not fit to play in a tiny tavern in a pox infested village. I’ll admit it’s been a few weeks since I’ve last played and months since we’ve seen a city where I could get my dress updated but I can’t be that out of touch? Right?”

Geralt hums, drinking his ale that barely tastes of anything other than dirty water. Attempts to drown out Jaskier were harder when the bard was practically in his ear the whole time. And giving him the sad eyes.

It was like looking at a pup who wandered too far from his mother.

“Come on Geralt,” Jaskier said, turning his body more towards Geralt. “I practice on the road often-“

“Incessantly.”

“And you’ve heard me this whole time,” Jaskier continues, undaunted. “Has my voice changed, and you just didn’t tell me?”

“No,” Geralt answered, his mug drained, shoving it into Jaskier’s chest to get him more. “It’s just as irritating as always.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, his voice getting quiet. His fingers grabbed the mug, swapping it for his full one into Geralt’s hand, then got up. “I—I’ll fetch another one.”

Geralt felt a knot form in his gut. Usually Jaskier takes any jibs like bothersome flies that was easily swatted. Geralt opened his mouth to give out something, to remove the look from his face, but Jaskier was moving quickly. The door was barely two paces from the furs, leaving Geralt’s words stuck in his throat as Jaskier disappeared through the doorway.

The ale tasted worse the second time as Geralt downed it. He was left to idly sort his items off to the side, allowing room for them to be able to sleep side by side. He moved the same item three times before he realized he was fussing.

And upset.

Because Jaskier was upset.

 _Fuck_.

Geralt stood, leaving his armor and jerkin behind. But he took the empty mug in hope he would have an excuse for his return to the bar. He had only made it a few steps out when he heard an argument. Two men and Jaskier. Outside the bar.

Why the fuck was he outside?

Geralt stalked towards the door, ignoring the bartender calling for him to leave his mug behind, and walked out. It was dark but Geralt, like most witchers, did not have a problem seeing in low light. His nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of the men, both angry, and Jaskier, annoyed, unsure, and fear. Sharp, sour, like rotten fruit. Fear was a terrible scent. Especially when mixed with one he was familiar with.

Geralt moved without thought, not hearing the words spoken. He stepped between the two men and the bard, his shoulders tight with coiled anger and protectiveness.

“Geralt!” Jaskier squeaked behind him, surprise, and relief pouring off him in waves.

The two men, farmers by the looks of them, probably related as they each had the same balled nose, stepped back.

“I'll be taking my companion inside,” Geralt spoke, low in his throat.

“Should have figured witchers were unnatural like that as well,” the taller one said, then spat at Geralt’s feet. “You both should leave this town tonight.”

“We don't want your lot around here,” the other spoke up, now finding his spine.

Geralt heard these words spoken hundreds of times by every accent imaginable. He didn't bat an eye at it, even though it always stung deep down. But Jaskier, he flinched against Geralt's back. Which made Geralt feel less inclined to oblige these two fools.

“Listen,” Geralt said, taking a step forward to invade the men's space. The stench of fear and sweat spiked suddenly and it wasn't from behind him anymore. “Either you leave walking or limping. Your choice.”

The two men balked at Geralt’s threat. Each muttering their insults, making the proper chest puffing to quell their egos as they walked away from the Witcher. Geralt watched them leave, ensuring neither man thought he was bluffing. Geralt felt Jaskier’s fingers graze his back and Geralt angled his head to indicate he was listening.

“I think they’ve learned you’ll rip them apart if they come back,” Jaskier commented, then tugged on his elbow. “Let’s go inside. I’m ready to sleep and move on from here.”

Geralt allowed Jaskier to guide him back inside the tavern and dropped his empty mug at the bar with the glaring man behind it. They returned to the room without much fuss, neither of them up for any more drinks this night. Instead, Geralt sat on the furs and watched as Jaskier started his own routine of checking his lute strings, then folding his clothing in a way that prevented wrinkles.

Geralt was done with his night, always sleeping in his linens when on the road. There were few places he felt comfortable enough to go down to his small clothes, or nothing at all. This village had not been the friendliest on their journeys. The people here were more likely to stab him than smile his way. Geralt wasn’t going to allow himself to be attacked at night in the nude.

Which is part of the confusion as to why Jaskier was outside with those men.

“Did those men drag you outside?” Geralt asked.

“Those men—Oh. No,” Jaskier answered, his hand making motions towards the door. “No, I was attempting to find some entertainment tonight and they decided to take offense to my asking. It seems even suggesting a bit of fun around here offends their ears.”

“You asked if there’s a whore here?” Geralt assumed.

“I asked if either of them was up for fun actually,” Jaskier commented, frowning at his clothes as he folded them again. “Though, I should have figured in _this_ place that pleasures are looked down upon. They weren’t my type either. I doubt I’d—”

“Them?” Geralt interrupted.

“I know!” Jaskier’s voice went up, his agreeing smile appearing on his face. Which only led to more confusion on Geralt’s part. “I’d most likely have caught something. I blame the lack of civilization these past few months for my poor judgment tonight along with the lack of performance. It made me desperate. I should at least have a higher standard than whatever it is those two were… Brothers? Cousins maybe? Well… it might have been slightly fun to have two partners at the same time but even then—”

“No,” Geralt cut him off once more. “I meant; I didn’t know you bedded _men_.” There was a pause while he remembered what those men looked like. “And you have terrible taste if you thought either of them were worth the risk.”

“I think I just went over that, thank you very much for your astute as always observations Geralt,” Jaskier said, then finally stopped pacing, flopping down on the furs next to Geralt. He frowned for a moment as though everything caught up with him, and then, “How did you not know I bedded men as well as women? Sure, the numbers are skewed in the ladies favor when it comes to romance, but surely you’ve seen me woo at least _one_ man in our years of travel?”

Geralt had to think on that. He didn’t normally pay attention to who Jaskier bedded as long as that person didn’t appear to want to gut him. Or be reason for someone who would want Jaskier to be gutted. It was as though Jaskier was drawn to married women like flies to shit. There were times Geralt believed Jaskier might purposefully pick them to be his bed warmers so he may escape any sort of long-term relationship. It was through travelling with him and understanding him more thoroughly that put that thought out of his head.

Jaskier genuinely fell for whoever he was in front of. Hard. And usually with terrible repercussions.

Like angry noblemen with armies.

Which now, could be scorn lovers. That put a different spin on a few situations when Geralt believed the men were a bit overzealous for chasing a man who may have had relations with their distant wives, or daughters. A man chasing someone who broke his heart would be cause enough.

“You’re a fool,” Geralt settled on, turned to get some rest.

“No, _no_ ,” Jaskier began, tugging at Geralt’s shoulder to keep him upright. “This isn’t a, let’s roll over and fake sleep in hopes that Jaskier stops asking me questions, situation.”

Geralt leveled him with a look.

“No,” Jaskier asserted. “We’re going to talk like adults for a few moments. I’m sure you can handle it now that I’ve braced you for the impact.”

“What’s more to say?” asked Geralt. “You fuck men and women. Your business is still your own.”

“Understood, but that means you thought I didn’t because… you haven’t laid with a man before, have you?” Jaskier asked, his voice doing that thing where he thinks he’s being delicate about a question, but it’s really sounds mildly amused. “Is that why you’ve completely ignored my general flirting in your direction during our first few weeks together? I thought you were being annoyingly noble by not wanting to bed me because you thought it would ruin our beautiful friendship. But now I know it’s not true, you’re starting make even more sense to me… and my pride is feeling a little hurt if I’m to be honest.”

“You _flirted_ with me?”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier said, patting Geralt’s shoulder. “I was a bit struck by just how… well… honorable you tend to be. And the muscles helped. So did the hair thing you do.” Jaskier flicked his head, an action Geralt was keenly aware he did when straightening up when his hair fell into his eyes. “It’s like out of a poem or something. Dashing hero, clad in armor, and bravery. Saving people because he knows it’s the right thing to do even when others spit on his deeds. I can’t be blamed for being swept up in all that for a time.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt hummed, closing his eyes, and shaking his head slightly. There were some things he didn’t need to know about the bard. A crush on him was the last thing Geralt thought he would hear in this tiny room. And to know Jaskier wasn’t making up all the bullshit he said sometimes, was odd. It made something flip in his stomach. Not quite uncomfortable, but also not pleasant.

Geralt took a moment longer to inhale the air around him.

The scents were mostly the same. Piss and vinegar lingered in corners of the room where someone either missed the chamber pot or got too drunk to care. The musk from the furs, under a pleasant leather scent he could almost taste on the back of his tongue from their clothes. Linen, under mud and earth. Grass, wheat, ale, and barley. He filtered all the room out from his mind and concentrated on the deeper, more masculine smell next to him.

Cider, and lemon grass, two things Geralt associated with Jaskier. It helped that whenever they dared stop for longer than an hour Jaskier would bathe in those oils. They seeped into his skin and lived there for months. Geralt can smell them on his shirt that Jaskier wore once last month, though it had mellowed over time. Beyond that smell, were indicators of emotions.

Not every emotion had a distinct smell just as every flower wasn’t quite different enough to tell apart. But there were some that were strong enough for Geralt to pick up.

Fear. Anger. Disgust. Lust.

His nose itched and his gut warmed, as it always did when lust was smelled. It wasn’t over-powering or else he would have smelt it easily. It was gentle, a simmer of something under Jaskier’s normal odors. Mixing with them and making Geralt want to bury his nose into Jaskier’s skin to further define those scents. See if lust became stronger.

That was a dangerous thought.

“Are you _smelling_ me?” Jaskier asked, looking mildly offended. “I’ll have you know you can’t change the subject on me. I’m aware we haven’t been able to bathe in some time but that was your fault for insisting we travel over the mountain to get here.”

“I was learning if your attraction to me had waned or not,” Geralt answered with a smirk. He may not have thought about bedding the bard before, or been trying to pursue his affections, but Geralt wasn’t immune to the boost to his ego either. He leaned in slightly, enjoying the jump in the spicy scent of lust on Jaskier now that he knew where to look for it, and said. “And I have to say, I’m _flattered_.”

Jaskier gaped like a fish. He sprung back slightly, making sounds but not forming words. Geralt wanted to laugh at him, watching the man of a thousand ballads suddenly loose all speech, but instead he smiled smugly at the bard.

“Good night Jaskier,” Geralt said, rolling over and enjoying himself immensely at Jaskier’s expense.

He was almost disappointed when Jaskier didn’t pull him up to speak more or try to get his attention. Instead, Jaskier blew out their candles, stared hard enough at Geralt’s back that Geralt could practically feel it. Then, he got down into the furs, stealing more covers than needed, most likely to be petty, before falling asleep.

Geralt wished he could, but the grip of revelations kept him awake and thinking. Then smelling. And wanting to touch Jaskier to wake him. To tease him more as that warmth of something in Geralt’s gut built. Then do something about it.

Geralt’s eyes went to Jaskier’s frame, traveling the curve of his body, and listening to the gentle snores he let out. Even in the dark he could see Jaskier’s smooth skin that he knew from experience was soft under his hands. Geralt felt his cock stir in interest.

Fuck.

It was a long time until Geralt drifted off. His body was normally warm, but when he was interested in sex, it became unbearable at times. He had to roll as far away from Jaskier was possible to escape the heat of the furs, and for his skin to lay on cold clay. The only fortunate part was, his body wore itself out naturally, leaving him alone.

For now.

He woke at first light, like most mornings, and a body pressed against his back. There was a layer of sweat between him and Jaskier. The stirrings from last night raged with the full force of rest, and a tempting body against his own. Geralt took a few moments where his senses kicked awake, his hips twisting to gain friction, some minor relief, as the spicy scent of lust filled his nostrils.

The worst part was it was from him this time.

Jaskier was still blissfully asleep, unaware of his words affecting Geralt so, and his body worst still. There hadn’t been any time to stop to spend his coin on company in months. The constant battling of monsters, the adrenaline spiking in his veins, blood rushing, and the thrill of it all without a release.

They would be stuck in some fucking backwater village without a single bit of outlet in sight. It would be days before they reached a city large enough to have women willing to lay with a witcher. Even longer until there was decent drink available to knock the thoughts of Jaskier lying under him.

Fuck.

Maybe Jaskier did have a point. They were left with little options and while he had not thought of bedding a man in that way before, heavy touching was done in his youth, he was considering it now. Especially when Jaskier rolled, tossing an arm around his waist, and pressing his face into Geralt’s hot back. Each puff of breath cooling and heating his skin.

Geralt slowly turned in Jaskier’s loose grasp, careful not to wake the bard. The morning light was a favor upon Jaskier’s skin, even as squished as it was against the furs. He thought back to every close contact they had through their travels. Every touch that may have lingered for longer than needed, the eyes that followed him, and the gentle hands that helped him bathe. How often had they awoke in the morn to find their limbs tangled during the middle of winter? More often than not.

Their scents had mingled during their shared journey. And it was… pleasant. Warm. Inviting.

The bard wrote songs about him. And not just one here or there, but constantly. Ballads, jigs, waxing poetry as though Geralt were a noble man born under the brightest star. All the while, that smile on his face as he practiced it, as though awaiting Geralt’s approval of his word choices. When none came, he merely wrote another.

How had Geralt not _seen_ Jaskier’s flirting?

If Jaskier was a maiden, Geralt would have been bedding him within their first night together, until now. That mouth, filled with words, would finally be put to better uses. Better than speaking lies on noble deeds, disgraced elves, and adventures skewed for an audience that neither experienced monsters firsthand, nor cared to. People who would spit at Geralt’s shoes, now turned to singing his praises around Jaskier. The bard who swayed the world to fit his wants.

Geralt pulled away from Jaskier, needing separation before he did something in haste.

It did not become better by the time Roach was brushed, packed, and the dew on the grass had faded with the warmth of the new day. However, it was manageable. Geralt had tasks to complete and to keep an eye on anyone coming near the tavern where the bard slept least the two men from last night decided to grow their courage back.

Which was why Geralt had his steel sword with him for the morning and left his silver one within reach of Jaskier. The bard may not have Geralt’s skill with the sword, but he was able. Their time spent together in traveling had many endless days of sharing interests, which came with sword play. Jaskier being a rather decent swordsman in a pinch, though he was slow to react to a threat.

Roach snorted in discomfort as Geralt tightened the billet. He loosened the strap slightly, his hand running between the leather and the horse’s fur, smoothing any areas that may have been pinched. He quietly apologized to her as she stomped her hoof at his treatment.

“Are you mistreating our fair lady, Geralt?” Jaskier asked as he stepped out of the tavern.

Jaskier held out a bowl for Geralt to take filled with days old fruit, cheese, and dried meat. Geralt’s stomach decided to inform him that he skipped meals, grumbling loudly, and making Jaskier give him a cheeky smile. Geralt snatched the bowl, taking the cheese and meat for himself. The apple slices he gave to Roach.

“I know I’m eager to leave this place as much as you are, but you should have stopped to eat at the very least,” Jaskier leaned against the post of the horse pen, his shirt riding up, and his eyes on Geralt. “Did you even pause to consider refilling some of our rations? While I don’t dismiss your talents for hunting, rabbit is growing a little stale.”

“You are free to catch your own meals,” Geralt commented, turning purposefully back to the saddle. He double checked for any new pinched areas. He had to resist the urge to take a deeper breath, to see what Jaskier smelled liked.

“Oh, someone’s cranky,” Jaskier teased. “I hear skipping meals does that to people.”

Geralt didn’t grace him with a reply. He was left with little options as the saddle had been checked twice, and the bags were ready for travel. Despite what Jaskier said, Geralt had packed additional rations, and restocked their supplies. The only tasks needing to be done were inside the room they shared the night before that would smell like them. Something Geralt was now aware of. And sought it out.

“Let’s get inside,” Jaskier offered, pushing off the pole, and coming into Geralt’s space. “You may have spent the morning readying, but I had yet to start. I’m sure with your help we’ll be off within the hour.”

Geralt should say no. He should stay with Roach, make excuses to keep his hands and nose from Jaskier while his mind quelled its sudden fascination. That would allow his body to cool and fall into the routine of traveling on the road. It would prevent him from acting on his impulses or giving himself away to the sharp bard who seemed in tune with Geralt’s thoughts at times.

Yet he found his feet already turning to follow Jaskier back inside without consulting his brain. He didn’t quite catch up until he was already watching Jaskier fuss about with his things. Geralt paused at the doorway, his body blocking the way as he heard the barkeep busy himself in the back. There were voices, not loud, nor whispering. Geralt leaned towards the hall in hopes of catching a word or two to assess if they were in any danger when Jaskier spoke.

“Lurking about isn’t going to make this go any faster,” he said, and Geralt turned towards the bard.

Who was bending over to stuff his nightshirt into his pack. Geralt’s eyes instantly went to the curve of his backside, noticing instantly how the linen pants stretched taut, and offered Geralt a wonderful view. Geralt took a sharp breath to cool himself, instead his nostrils filled with spice, and his gut warmed. Geralt moved forward, and with his eyes still on Jaskier, he closed the door behind him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said with a low voice like a warning.

The bard paused, turning slightly, though keeping himself in a provocative pose.

“Yes Geralt?” he asked.

“Is this part of that flirting thing?”

“Glad you finally caught on,” Jaskier commented, that smile lighting up his face was back. His eye lids lowered slightly. “Interested?”

Geralt hummed, approaching the bard, glad he had left the room previously in haste. He didn’t have to deal with his armor being between them. It felt natural to slide his hand over Jaskier’s hip, pushing the shirt up to expose the back he had seen hundreds of times. However, never in this context of lust and sex. Jaskier moved, pressing his backside against the front of Geralt, letting out a beautiful moan when it collided with Geralt’s want.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Jaskier said.

“I blame the lack of civilization,” Geralt joked, knowing recalling that line would ruffle Jaskier’s feathers. When Jaskier pivoted, ready to complain, Geralt grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss to silence that mouth.

Geralt had been worried before that being with a man would feel different. In some ways, it was. Jaskier’s lips were soft like most of his partner’s but the morning stubble gave a texture Geralt was not used to. Geralt traced his lips over the skin a few times, learning he liked the feel, the tingle it left on his own skin. His tongue tasted the sweet apples Jaskier had for breakfast. Geralt explored every inch of skin open to him, enjoying the newness of the experience as though touching a woman for the first time.

But Jaskier was no woman, and Geralt was quickly reminded of it when he stripped Jaskier of his clothes. Geralt enjoyed the view of Jaskier spread out on the furs, breathing the spice mixed with cider, and leather. His callused hands pushed Jaskier’s soft thighs apart for him to settle in between them, leaning to kiss Jaskier’s stomach. Geralt smiled as he felt the muscles behind pale skin flutter, tickled by Geralt. Giving into impulse he latched his mouth on the tender flesh, gently biting at it.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice trembling.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face as his hand circled Jaskier’s cock. The slightly touch of skin against skin, and Jaskier’s mouth fell open, his pupils dilating, and moans started pouring in. Geralt felt his own cock become hard at the sights and scents he was experiencing, and he wondered if he could get Jaskier to pin his head between those lovely thighs as Geralt tasted him.

There was only one way to find out.

Geralt enjoyed the musky taste of Jaskier’s skin, the throbbing of his cock as Geralt’s tongue ran up the length before swallowing him down. Geralt couldn’t grin even as he wanted to when Jaskier’s thighs clapped around him, squeezing at his ears, and letting Geralt know exactly how much he enjoyed this. Geralt’s hands circled under Jaskier’s lower back, lifting him slightly.

The shocked gasp was heard even through the fleshy legs wrapped around him. Geralt loved to show his strength with the right partner. Someone who wouldn’t fear him. It allowed him to do interesting things, like pushing and pulling Jaskier’s whole body in order to suck his cock. He was so focused on his task, he barely registered the arching of Jaskier’s back, and the sudden jolt.

Right before Geralt tasted his release, and happily took it. Not the clean, sweet taste of a woman. This was sharper, thicker, and left sticking between his togue.

Geralt tenderly set Jaskier back on the furs, his mouth holding Jaskier’s softening cock, and nose shoved into his skin. Geralt was entranced by Jaskier’s flushed face, his skin glistening with sweat, eyes unable to open completely, and lips swollen from biting them, to keep back his sounds. To make top it off, Jaskier’s scent had changed slightly. His natural scent came out, more masculine, unique, and yet, still mixed with Geralt. As though his very pores absorbed Geralt.

Something in Geralt greatly enjoyed that. Thinking he had left a permanent mark on the bard. One he could always find when close to Jaskier’s skin. When they were intimate. And any partner with half of Geralt’s sense of smell would find it as well.

“W-wow,” Jaskier said, his hand running through his own hair, then swallowing, and his brilliant blue eyes looking down at Geralt. “You’re… you’re really _thorough_. And… and wow.”

Jaskier made a high-pitched whine when Geralt finally pulled away, letting Jaskier’s overly sensitive cock fall free.

“I’m just getting started bard,” Geralt said, his voice husky from his activities. Geralt would feel bad about Jaskier’s slightly panicked look if he didn’t catch the scents rolling off Jaskier. Geralt sat back enough to take his shirt off, throwing it carelessly to the side. “I’ve not been with a man, but I assume it’s much the same.”

“W-well, not quite,” Jaskier said, his hands caressing Geralt’s chest. “If you want to fuck me, we’ll need something to ease the way.”

“I’ve fucked a woman up the ass before,” Geralt said, already pulling one of the oils safe for humans out of his pack. He held it up to show Jaskier and raised his brow. “Anything else I should know?”

Jaskier’s eyes went from the small bottle to Geralt, then back again. He huffed a laugh, then fell back onto the furs.

“No. No, it’s quite the same as far as for _preparation_ goes,” Jaskier answered, moving his thighs as Geralt already started to settle between them to get ready for the next round. His eyes went to Geralt’s cock, still within his trousers. “Just make sure you use enough, Geralt. I’m not trying to feed your ego or anything, but you are a substantial cock and I’d rather like to be able to walk when we leave here. Preferably within the next few hours at the very least.”

“I’ll be careful of your ass,” Geralt said, leaning forward. “Promise.”

Before Jaskier could complain anymore, Geralt captured his lips. The bard was talented with his mouth and tongue, which Geralt enjoyed feeling that on his own. It was a great distraction for Jaskier as well, allowing Geralt to oil his fingers quickly without further comments. As Jaskier’s hands combed through Geralt’s hair, leaving a lovely warm feeling against his scalp, Geralt tugged the bard to him.

Jaskier let out the smallest gasp as Geralt’s finger breached him. Dainty, slight, and beautiful. A noise to cherish and called forth Geralt’s want to possess. He leaned further into Jaskier, trapping the bard under his bigger frame. One hand grasped full of Jaskier’s hair, keeping his head still so Geralt could fuck him with his tongue and his fingers, slowly working their way deeper.

Geralt paused a few times to reoil his fingers, careful to listen for any sounds of discomfort or pain. He may be rough with Jaskier sometimes, but he would never with this. Especially not when Jaskier was finally singing in a way Geralt truly appreciated. Breathless, wanting, and against his mouth.

When Geralt’s cock breached into Jaskier, Geralt forgot to breathe. His whole body went tense, muscles aching to move, but his eyes were on Jaskier. He promised to be gentle, to ensure there was no damage. He was going to follow through with it, even if he killed him. There was also the absolute satisfaction of watching Jaskier’s mouth slowly open in time with Geralt’s push into him. The glazed look in his eyes and rapturous expression.

Something went taut in Geralt’s chest, long forgotten, and old.

But he couldn’t stop to think on it. Couldn’t think a single damn thing because his cock was being surrounded by velvet warmth, his nose bombarded with scents of lust, sweat, lemon grass, cider, spice, leather, and _Jaskier_. The only thing holding Geralt in the moment was Jaskier’s thighs wrapping around his hips and his hands grabbing at his shoulders. The tug to pull Geralt closer and he was already falling.

Mouths crashed together once more, and Geralt’s hips began moving in time with their moans. Geralt felt the hot flesh of Jaskier’s renewed cock bouncing between them, pressing against his belly, and wrapped one hand around it. The breathless call of his names fell over and over again from Jaskier’s lips, soft and sweet.

And it was all Geralt could do to hold on as his body thrummed with pleasure. He buried his cock as deep as he could into the bard, feeling his own release, the radiating ecstasy from groin. It took every ounce of coordination not to collapse on the smaller man, and instead he collapsed like a felled tree on the furs, dragging Jaskier with him until the bard was now on top. Geralt was barely aware of the warm liquid splashing on his stomach and chest from Jaskier’s second orgasm as he felt his heart thundering against his ribs. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier said against Geralt’s neck, his own heart pounding so hard Geralt could hear it.

“Hmm that was the goal,” Geralt answered, his hands caressing Jaskier’s back, one combing through the bard’s hair, tugging loosely on the strands. His cock was still within Jaskier, and Geralt hoped he didn’t move for some time. The gentle softening while surrounded by his heat would be a pleasant end to all of this.

Luckily, Jaskier seemed disinclined to leave, rubbing his nose against Geralt.

“We both need a bath,” Jaskier commented. “The travel we’ve done notwithstanding, I’m pretty sure we reek of each other at this point.”

Geralt smiled at that, his nose burying into the bard’s hair. He was right. They did smell of each other, and of sex. It was a good scent, making his cock twitch with interest. Geralt would be inclined to recreate if they washed too soon, even as he could feel the semen began to dry against his skin, which would become unpleasant. But there was time before that.

“Oh no, you _like_ that smell, don’t you?” Jaskier said, as though appalled. The laughter in his voice gave him away instantly. “I’m going to go around smelling like sex and witcher for the rest of my days, aren’t I? I’ll never be taken seriously as a bard ever again. They’ll say all my songs of you are exaggerated because I’ve fallen for you.”

“They _are_ exaggerated.”

“ _Enhanced_ , Geralt,” Jaskier insisted. “They are all true, just told in a way that the public can understand. Not everyone wants to listen to the smallest detail of a hunt, or how often you’ve had to return to a baron or nobleman demanding they tell the truth because surprise, surprise, they lied. Petty, small things can be left behind. It’s the heart of the matter that I sing about. That’s what really counts.”

Geralt huffed.

“It’s still not true.”

“Always a critic,” Jaskier said, pulling back enough to see Geralt’s face. “You still smell like onions, by the way.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier, though he felt no anger. The playful smile on Jaskier’s face matched Geralt’s feelings. He flipped Jaskier onto his back, pinning the bard, and started to kiss him into submission. Their tussle stoking the fires of lust once more in Geralt, who had more than enough oil to keep Jaskier under him. This time slower, and with gentle chatter between them. The occasional tease that would cause Geralt to thrust harder, cutting off Jaskier’s words, and leaving only gasping behind.

When they made their way out of the tavern, it was nearly noon, and the barkeep was glaring at them. Jaskier’s hair was a mess, and his neck was peppered with marks from Geralt’s morning scruff biting into his skin. Even if they were quiet, there was little doubt what the two of them were up to in that small room. Geralt kept closer to Jaskier, who was oblivious of the two men from last night in the back who watched them with sneers, the guard who’s hand was on his blade, the mother at the other end who clutched her child closer as she spotted them.

But even with the world hating him, Geralt felt content. Jaskier’s warm hand on his shoulder, his constant chatter about their new destination brightened the day. And Geralt would protect him as best as he could, even though Jaskier annoyed him greatly at times.

If Geralt had to choose between being annoyed, or living without Jaskier, there was no choice to be made. The bard would find him anyways.

“Do I have something in my hair?” Jaskier asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Then why do you have that silly smile on your face?” Jaskier asked, his hands ruffling his hair anyways.

“Happy to be leaving here.”

“Yes, well, as am I,” Jaskier said, walking along side Roach and Geralt. Just as promised, nothing was damaged on the bard, as he walked smoothly, hips swaying like usual. His eyes narrowed at Geralt for a moment. “You’re positively giddy, aren’t you? If a few weeks without then suddenly having make you this happy, I may have to ensure it occurs more often.”

“Will you be leaving then?”

“Of course not!” Jaskier said with a grin. “Can’t let you go on adventuring without me. Why do you ask? Ready to be rid of me?”

“No,” Geralt said, his eyes sliding down to Jaskier’s form, enjoying the shiver from the bard. “I shall not be without tonight then at least.”

Jaskier’s mouth open as though to argue, most likely to make an ill attempt to say they would not be sharing beds so quickly. But his cheeks dotted red, and his shifting showed a different thought entirely. Geralt took a deep inhale of the air. Crisp wind, the woods, and nature. Under it was the scent he craved.

They didn’t last two miles before they were stripped of clothes once more. And Geralt wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Failed to Voice: Jealousy & Pining

In the first few months the newness of their relationship had taken them by storm. There was seldom a day that passed, with only exceptions of monster hunting taking Geralt away, that they did not share a bed. Or a bath. Or a wall one time in a questionable village. Their winter departure was a sudden break to their habits. When Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier to Oxenfurt, each sharpening their minds in their crafts with promises to reunite after the first thaw.

Geralt’s long days of meditation and listening to Vesemir ramble on about the changes of the world left Geralt wanting. As always Lambert bitched about everything and Eskel was… well _Eskel_. The shouting matches from Lambert and Vesemir were nearly unsurpassed in volume when they were upset like wet cats. Geralt tried avoiding the matter but the fortress was only so big. He often was pit in the middle of them when he least expected it, leaving his ear ringing.

Despite this, he had looked forward to the return, as he did every year. When Geralt would be with his fellow Witchers after nearly a year apart, yet his skin itched to return to the path. Something he rarely felt. He was packed before the snow had a chance to begin melting and was the first to set off from the fortress. The roads would still be dangerous but Geralt could not wait any longer. His blood felt on fire and no amount of meditation would cool it.

Geralt had cursed as twice on his journey he was accosted to assist with a problem. As with the coming of the spring, came the hatching of eggs, the staggering of new life from caves, and made their mother’s hungry from the long rest. Harpies in the mountains were common but this early in spring was not a good sign for the year to come, even if they were thin. Easily dispatched with his silver but had delayed him by a day.

Then a troll had decided it owned the main road leading into Carsten outside of Oxenfurt. The closeness to his goal was the true cause of his poor temperament. Trolls could be reasoned with if one was patient and able to dodge thrown rocks. It took longer than normal for Geralt to quell his anger long enough to find a satisfactory payment. A gathering of old horseshoes for the troll was enough to free Geralt’s trip once more. The troll believing with the shoes he would be able to grow his own horses, something Geralt had wisely not corrected it on.

With his purse barely heavier than when he first set on his way, but with lower on rations than he preferred, Geralt had his third delay. Heading straight for the city would risk him being too broke to purchase food and drink. But it would get him there quicker. On the other hand, he could camp for one more day in order to hunt and dry some meat. He could fill his rations enough to stave off hunger for two days, enough to find a contract in order to fill his purse. Then he wouldn’t have to rely heavily on Jaskier.

That was if Jaskier had not moved to another city during the winter. The bard was fickle at times. Geralt may need to travel further to meet up with him.

Fuck.

He sat upon Roach debating his options long enough she grew impatient with him, heading down the road without him guiding her. He sighed, patting her neck in thanks, and let her do the thinking for them. He ignored the passing carts and travelers, not bothering with their flinches from his appearance or their muttered words. He had more important things to do, and when Roach’s hooves hit the stoned roads leading into Oxenfurt, Geralt felt his gut flip.

There was something about the pointed red roofs of Oxenfurt that made the city seem brighter. Scholars gathered here, a wealth of knowledge to be had for those who seek it at the Academy. The multiple ports ensured the trade would never sour as the ships brought in as much culture as they did fish. The narrow streets were lively with people in fashions from around the continent, each engrossed in conversations ranging from poetry, science, theories, and belief. Songs were sung in every tavern, markets were abundant, and the smells were enough to overwhelm an unprepared Witcher.

It was no wonder why Jaskier enjoyed coming to the city.

With a few words of asking around, Geralt was able to find Jaskier’s typical spot. And Geralt was sat at the Three Little Bells by the back wall within the hour as he awaited Jaskier’s arrival. There was a chance he could catch the bard at the academy but without an escort, or note stating his reasons for being there, it was unlikely they would allow Geralt to roam the halls. His best chance was to wait it out, and it also allowed Roach to rest as well.

Geralt had closed his eyes at one point, slipping into a meditative state, letting his ears keep alert for him. No one had approached him during his hours here other than the barmaid who looked more displeased on every pass. He was tempted to order drinks with his coin but held off on the chance he would need to travel once more. He only broke in purchasing soup and bread when his stomach complained loud enough to disturb the people in a nearby table.

The day slipped away into evening. The staff went around the room lighting various candles to keep the shadows at bay, though never came close to Geralt’s corner. He lit it himself with a quick sign of Igni when the patrons and staff were not looking. There was no reason to frighten them more and Geralt didn’t want to be bothered.

At every opening of the door, Geralt’s eyes would glance to see who entered. It wasn’t uncommon for a Witcher to keep watch of his environment, but the clench in his gut was new. The anticipation of seeing the familiar face grew with each passing hour and soon Geralt would have to leave or spend his last coin on a room to ease the staff who allowed the Witcher to linger.

When Geralt grew frustrated enough to gather his items, ready to leave and make camp outside the gates, the door opened once more.

“To my lovely patrons of the art, I come to rescue thee from boredom and unbearable silence,” called a voice Geralt knew well. Jaskier strutted into the inn, lute already in hand, calloused fingers strumming on the worn strings, and a spring in his step.

Geralt took a moment to drink in his appearance, his double-breasted purple doublet, high waisted trousers trimmed to fit his hips perfectly, and the longer length of his hair that curled around his ears. These aren’t the things that made him Jaskier. That was the set of his shoulders, the need to perform, and gather the attention of a crowd.

Which, judging by the joyous hollering, was already earned through previous nights of song. 

Geralt was torn between going to see his friend, the one he had been awaiting, or sitting back to enjoy the sudden upturn in atmosphere. It would be hasty to disturb a bard mid-performance. There was also the fact that Geralt did not want to appear as an eager pup. So, he stayed sat, and watched.

“What do we say to a jig? Something to liven up the mood?” Jaskier asked the crowd, many of them probably students he taught in the nearby Academy, already adoring him. They cheered, and Jaskier’s fingers began to strum a lively tune.

It was one Geralt heard many times on the road. It was a piece Jaskier was working on before their departure. The beginning was much the same, a four-beat catchy tune, with lyrics that were not suited for young ears. It roused the crowd into stomping their feet with the music, as a few sung along with the chorus. More than a few tankards of ale were lifted as Jaskier pranced around the room, stirring the patrons up in hopes of parting them from their coins this evening. 

Jaskier went near a table with two lovely women, each giggling to themselves when the bard’s attention turned to them. Their faces flush as Jaskier winked in their direction, hovering near them long enough to gain chuckles, but he did not linger. Instead he went to the next table of male scholars, who were readily pulling out their purses to shower the bard in. Jaskier sat upon their table, leaning back dramatically as he finished his song.

Geralt snorted into his drink at the display.

As though he heard it from across a rowdy room, Jaskier’s head turned towards the dark corner. Geralt wondered if Jaskier could even make him out with his eyesight, and it was confirmed quickly that he could when Jaskier’s lips curled up.

Geralt nodded towards him, lifting his drink.

“Ah, I bid you all a brief pause in our performance tonight,” Jaskier said, his eyes not leaving Geralt yet. “A friend has come to bid me. But fear not, for I shall return with many more songs where that came from.”

There was clamoring, many upset at having only been treated to a single song from the bard, but Jaskier waved it off. His feet hastily moved toward Geralt’s solitary spot. Geralt’s normally slow heartbeat ever so quicker when Jaskier opened his arms.

“It’s good to see you Geralt!” Jaskier said as they embraced in a hug.

“Jaskier,” Geralt replied, his nose already inhaling the scent he missed from his daily routine, and his arms held the bard a little longer than necessary but Jaskier did not complain. He smelled of happiness, cider, lemon grass, and spice.

“I thought you weren’t going to return until spring,” Jaskier commented as they parted, his face flush.

“First thaw,” Geralt replied. “The ground may be cold, but it can be traveled. I’m surprised you haven’t taken to the road. Cold feet?”

“No,” Jaskier scoffed, his arms opening as he gestured to the inn. “I’m staying put for at least another week or more. I have a lecture in the morn, and a duet performance tomorrow eve. Not to mention I haven’t saved enough coin for a horse yet. I did inquire on a rather docile gelding but is more expensive than the mare who likes to bite and I’m fond of my fingers, so I am still saving.”

Geralt hummed, too pleased at seeing his old friend to worry about getting on the road. For all his eagerness to return to travel while at Kaer Morhen, it seems it was satisfied with Oxenfurt. The thought of sharing a bed with someone for the first time in months was also an attractive prospect. It calmed his need to travel. At least for now.

Though, he may have to leave without the bard if he was truly not going to move until he purchased a horse. They were not cheap. And Geralt was not fond of waiting until then nor leaving without the bard.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” Jaskier said, sitting down across from Geralt now to have a proper chat. “I’m sure all your _witchering_ will still be there when I’m ready to leave. Not to mention, I’m sure there’s a contract or two you could do in Oxenfurt while here, if the ports are any indication.”

“Drowned fishermen?”

“Yes, actually. How do you kno- _of course_ you know, stupid question. Anyways, two drowned fishermen in the last week, and there will most likely be a contract soon out for whatever they are-“

“Drowners, most likely.”

“Oh, well, that’s an apt name,” Jaskier pulled out his notebook as his other hand patted his pockets for his quill. “The whole, drowning of men of the sea does have some poetry to it. Men who make their lives on the sea and it used in their demise. I could write a few poems from that alone.”

“Poetry?” Geralt asked. “Thought you didn’t go for that stuff.”

“I didn’t, until this winter,” Jaskier said with a far-off look in his eyes. “I found a muse that just spoke to me. Caused me to realize there was beauty to those poems after all, for what else could possibly do her grace justice?”

Geralt stared at the bard, knowing that even without prompting, there would be a flurry of answers rolling off his tongue.

“What could possibly captivate the noble Jaskier to words, you may ask-"

“I didn't.”

“It is the lovely, the voluptuous elegance upon this world that is the Countess De Stael.”

That was when Geralt learned that Jaskier, the bard who bedded half the noble court during their travels together, had fallen for a noble woman while Geralt was away. Something that cooled the warmth in his gut and made the itch to travel come back with full force. Jaskier and he had not discussed becoming exclusive during their relationship. There wasn’t a need for it. It was quick, a sudden whirlwind of emotions in a few short months, and they parted for longer than they were together due to the winter. Jaskier still flirted with women during that time, and Geralt made no indication he was bothered.

Why would Jaskier stop his womanizing ways then?

Geralt chided himself for having that foolish thought. Jaskier was free to bed who he liked, just as Geralt was. And if Jaskier found the winter months less cold than Geralt, there was no need to linger on it. He had the bard with him once more, and someone who did not mind sharing his bed from time to time.

Geralt took a sip of his ale and reminded himself that was far more than most witchers ever had. What more, it was something witchers had no right to expect. Vesemir was clear in his teachings that humans were fickle, often frightful of their kind. They should never expect nor accept a relationship with another.

It was only sex. And that's all it can ever be.

Geralt set his mind to it. Filing his expectations properly. There was no mourning for what could have been since it was never Geralt's to have. He was out of line for even thinking of restricting Jaskier or projecting any, however minor, attachments. They were travel companions that shared a bed on occasion. That suited his… no, it suited _their_ lives all the better.

Geralt finished his ale, listened to Jaskier talking nonsense for the better part of an hour about this woman he had been sharing his bed with. Or rather, her bed. She had purchased the new outfit for Jaskier, something a little more delicate and detailed than Jaskier's usual affair. It would have taken someone many weeks to stitch those tiny flowers into the vest and must have been worth more than what Geralt could make in several contracts.

When Jaskier finished, Geralt paid for his meal and agreed to meet Jaskier back at the inn in a week's time to head out while Geralt inquired about drowned fishermen.

It turned out there was a pack of drowners, which raised the coin enough to buy all the rations they needed, and the fair Countess kicked Jaskier out two days later. If both pleased Geralt, he failed to voice it. He even pitched in more coin to allow Jaskier to buy the white-haired gelding.

Which Jaskier named Pegasus and it was horribly lazy. Geralt only complained about it every few days.

Their travels in early spring to the beginning of summer together were much the same as the year before. Geralt having to chase off a few suitors that wished to gut Jaskier for soiling their maidens. Finding contracts that barely paid enough for the work put into killing monsters. Jaskier performed at every chance, filling his purse and seldom being without a warm bath for more than a week.

The only departure was they would bed each other. It was no longer every night as they adopted before the winter. They came together when the tension between them became charged. Geralt’s lingering stares at camp on a calm night. Jaskier’s flushed face, charming smile, and nod towards their bed. It happened most often after a particularly good day, or comfort after a bad one.

When Geralt had found what left of the taken woman from the farm and had to explain it as gently as possible. The wails of the family still ringing in his ear even as Jaskier placed kisses on his chest, nimble fingers working loose the strings of his trousers, and his nose filled with the spice of lust. Jaskier’s mouth eventually erased the day and left Geralt worn through, and lax, with the bard tucked under his chin.

There were a few other changes that came with time, as they must. Their words softened towards each other as Geralt came to terms with their arrangement. The once sharp-tongued jabs turned to quibbles tossed with smiles. Touching was another, though it was done solely by Jaskier. Jaskier was often flippant, his sense of proprietary and decorum not being high standard at the best of times, was still there. However, it now came with the occasional kiss to Geralt’s unguarded cheek, or a brush of fingers against his backside.

Something Geralt mentally noted, catching each and storing them away. He would not allow himself to make the mistake again of thinking this was more. But he would be a fool to not enjoy the attention when it was received.

Though Geralt was less inclined to allow himself to be gentle, there were moments. When Jaskier would drink a bit too much, and Geralt would help him to bed. Or when Geralt would use Igni to keep the bath warm for hours, until Jaskier was ready to soak. If Geralt slowed Roach’s pace to allow Jaskier to look around while they rode, he would not admit it. The soft smiles on Jaskier’s face at finding himself in bed after drink, or a warm bath, or able to gaze about freely on their travels was enough.

These seemed small changes. Something no one would spot in Geralt and over time, with the fading that came with years, he doubted anyone would notice his affections towards the bard. No one seemed to pay them any attention outside of the usual as they traveled. Not a single pair of eyes lingered on them, as though questioning. Geralt’s affliction was hidden well. But that did not hold true for those who knew him before.

Geralt had to deal with a few words from Mousesack who thought it funnier than necessary that Geralt was, in his words, tripping over his feet like a fawn whenever Jaskier looked his way.

“I do not _fawn_ ,” Geralt said, hissing his words.

“Oh, my friend, you do indeed,” Mousesack replied. “I have yet to see you smitten with anyone in our travels. I find myself rather surprised to see it’s a young bard who caught your eye. While he is fresh faced and I have little doubts over his talents, this is still cause for humor.”

“I cannot be rid of him, though I have tried,” Geralt continued as though the druid had not spoken to him. “He has hired me to bodyguard him tonight. Nothing more.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job of it as well,” Mousesack said, his lips curling. “You’d be remiss to allow a single hair on that fine head to be harmed. Though, I’m sure you would enjoy any care he required in such an event.”

Geralt took a drink to stifle a response. He rarely could tie the druid up in words and with his eyes constantly drifting over to the bard dressed in pleats of gold fabric he saved months to purchase, his mind was not up to the task. There was only room for more teasing which Geralt could use less of as he found himself confused as to his own actions. He did not need others to needle at them.

“Alas, we’re not here to speak of those matters, as fun as they be,” the druid continued. “I would have you keep an eye on the proceedings this night. The future of kingdoms will be chosen. The unity forged by the marriage of the young princess will have rippled effects through the lands, either by the alliances, or the one who feel snubbed. This will all occur while your young bard prances about to entertain the crowds.”

“He’s not my bard,” Geralt says quickly.

“You may want to inform him of that,” Mousesack answers, nodding towards the band.

Geralt’s eyes follow it up to see Jaskier looking at him, his fingers idly strumming along to the beat in practiced movements, and a small smile appeared on his face. Geralt felt his own returning it, then remembered his company, forcing himself to remain neutral. It did not diminish Jaskier’s happiness to see his lack of reaction, but the bard gave a wink, before going back to his adoring crowd.

“Fawn.”

“Shut it.”

The night was far from dull once he left Mousesack’s side. He had to recover some of his awareness as a nobleman attempted to disrobe Jaskier to see if it was him who fled from his wife’s chambers. The false story of Jaskier’s manhood being harmed by a swift kick by an ox as a child would currently earn him a few cold nights, but it was worth it to watch Jaskier’s face flush. The fact that the story would surely spread to maidens who might be inclined to bed the bard was only a side benefit. The last thing Geralt needed was to chase off more suitors who wished to remove Jaskier’s head from his body.

It did not have anything to do with Geralt’s tightening gut every time Jaskier looked at another with his adoring eyes.

By the end of the night, if that was the worst thing Geralt had to deal with, he might have been content. But it wasn’t. A fight with all the court, a curse lifted, and worse of all, a child of surprise.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called after him but Geralt kept moving. “Geralt, _slow down_ at the very least, I implore you as these shoes were not tailored for my feet, and I’m sure I have blisters on top of blisters by now- _OW_ \- yes, I do. I might be _bleeding_ now. Are you happy?”

Geralt turned, his face close to Jaskier’s who looked startled by the sudden change.

“NO, **I’m not** ,” Geralt said with his voice raised and teeth barely moving. His whole body was tense and the urge to flee was rising once more in him. Jaskier’s frown, his lack of fear even when a witcher, a butcher, screamed in his face, stilled him.

“No one could have predicted this,” Jaskier said, his hand twitching as though to comfort Geralt but thinking better of it. “At least no one died! That’s got to be a positive to all this…” he waved his hand about. “Nonsense, at the very least.”

Geralt didn’t respond, his body growing warm from the heat. His need to run, his mind racing on the lessons drilled into him as a child. To not get involved. To not grow an attachment. To stay away from court whenever possible.

And he fucked that all up because a bard asked him to, bathed and fucked him in that tub.

It felt as though that were days ago, not hours.

Geralt huffed, his head turning.

“Will you tell me where you’re heading to?” Jaskier offered, no longer attempting to stop him.

“Away,” Geralt answered. Jaskier looked down and smelled like hurt. Geralt relented. “East.”

“That’s… that’s good,” Jaskier nodded, but turned to retreat into the castle where he was meant to be performing. Where his lute, his most prized possession, lay unguarded. “I have to stay long enough to fill my contract then I’ll meet up with you. Three days tops.”

“Do as you like, bard,” Geralt said, then turned. “I will not sit idle.”

He didn’t look behind him. The words he needed to say would not climb out of his throat, but the panic did. His life was not meant to be travelled by others. Jaskier would do well on his own as his songs gained popularity. His reputation alone is what allowed him to play at the party tonight, which was gathered through his hard work and skills. There was no need to put him at risk with monsters and nights of discomfort. Not knowing where the next meal may come along.

It certainly wasn’t a life for a child either.

Something Geralt was now faced with. It was one thing to have a grown adult with him on his journey. Even then, Jaskier was in constant danger. It would be best to cut all ties with others. To save them from suffering later.

Geralt needed to be strong. For them. He would not allow his affections to overcome reason once more.

And the strength came from taking up tasks as often as possible. He would obsessively check the notice boards of every place he went to, offering his services for the typical fair of monsters causing troubles for the locals, and even the smaller ones. Helping an older man build new fencing around his property, hunting down bandits who stole a woman’s prized frying pan, and offering services to help gather valuable herbs.

When he couldn’t find any jobs to do, he spent the coins he earned on drink, and women. Anything to keep his mind from thinking of the bard, torn between hoping he had found a much better life without a witcher, and wanting him to pull Geralt’s sorry ass from his drunken state. He could only keep up the routine for three weeks, the whole time slowing down day by day on his movements. He was no longer hopping from place to place, but lingering. The initial shock of the situation finally wearing off on his system.

Which may have occurred sooner if Geralt was sober for longer.

By the fourth week after he left Cintra behind, Geralt was growing irritated. The taverns he rested in would carry a familiar tune being strummed by less skilled bards than Jaskier. Their timing was off, and they would make up lyrics when they were unsure of the words. Geralt knew he had to stop listening to these people play when one night, drunk off his ass, he pinned one to a wall for their poor attempts.

Geralt left the main roads after that one.

Which also meant he had little coin, and with little coin to spend, he could not drink. He also could not afford to pay for any more partners to lay with him. A fine combination of frustration, anger, and longing surged through him. It became worse when he would settle in for the nights.

His pack smelled of Jaskier even months after their parting. Geralt couldn’t bear to throw away Jaskier’s shirt that made it into his pack even as the scent made his chest ache. He missed the bard’s presence as he would miss Roach being at his side. Even her company wasn’t enough some nights, especially when all he had was his hand, and the hard ground, his nostrils filled with Jaskier’s lingering scent that grew fainter by the day.

The days became a big blur, as they were after Renfri and before Jaskier. Geralt had no contracts to take, instead deciding to gather what he could find the nearby monsters killing the strayed traveler who most would not have missed. A few feathers from colorful harpies, and on a particularly unlucky find based on the wound across Geralt’s shoulder, wyvern scales.

It took Geralt an hour to remove the skin from the dead wyvern. It was thin, most likely desperate for food since it thought to trap Geralt in its claws. Geralt was slowed from the battle with the harpies. Only a pair, but enough that he already depleted his Swallow potion before the distant flapping of a wyvern had him cursing.

The only luck in all of it came from Roach being left back at camp, safe from the threats.

In order to take all the parts he needed and wrap his wound, Geralt tore his shirt off. Made what he could into strips to stop the bleeding, the rest to tie off the rolled-up hide. He grunted at the blood staining his armor as it washed dirt away in small rivers. He had yet to have a decent bath in weeks, and rivers were further than he liked.

He sat for a few minutes, looking at the corpses of the harpies, and the wyvern. Their numbers were dwindling in the years, and within the century there may not be work for a witcher anymore. A few more months and the wyvern would had died without help of a well-placed Aard, and a blade of silver. The seasons were changing.

Geralt gathered his items, mindful of his wound, and made his way through the brush towards his camp.

He heard a second horse first before a quiet voice. He was still a mile away from his camp, and he allowed his senses to expand. He was tired, but he could handle a single bandit. Geralt paused as the wind picked up, and his nostrils flared out to pick up the scent.

Cider and lemongrass.

His feet walked towards the camp without consulting his mind. His normally slow heart picked up the pace, beating harder now than his daring fight just a few hours ago. He spotted the white furred horse with an overpriced saddle graced his back before anything else. Pegasus was nudging at Roach, who’s ears were pinned, annoyed by the gelding like always, but tolerating him.

Then, Geralt spotted Jaskier.

Bent over. Tending to a fire. And his bedroll already placed beside Geralt’s.

Something ached in his chest at the sight.

Jaskier turned and paused when he spotted Geralt. Their eyes stared for a few seconds, Geralt drinking in his appearance. The slight loss in weight, making his face finally appear as though he were no longer a boy. How his hair was long enough to finally begin curling at the ends just begging to be touched. And the first pair of sensible boots Geralt had ever seen him wear, which was enough to make Geralt stare at them for a little longer than needed.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice broke the tension. “You’re hurt.”

“Wyvern,” Geralt answered, lifting his bounty to show, then finally letting it drop to the ground.

“I didn’t know wyvern had feathers,” Jaskier commented, already moving towards Geralt’s pack to pull the needed potions and wrappings, as though the past few months had not occurred.

“They don’t,” Geralt watched him in fascination, and a hint of wariness. “Fought harpies first. Wyvern came after.”

“Well that explains the giant hole in your shoulder then,” Jaskier commented as he tugged free the medical items needed, and gestured for Geralt to sit, which he did. “Never knew harpies to get the better of you. Now, a wyvern is a different story.”

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s nimble fingers pulled the clasps and knots of his armor, slipping the pieces off almost as quickly as Geralt. Their time undressing each other came in handy, and Geralt found his eyes closing for a few moments to allow the sensations to fill him. Gentle tugs to release the armor, the warmth from Jaskier's body next to his, their knees brushing against one another, and the familiar scent in his nose. He was no longer memories, but here, and Geralt found muscles he didn't realize were tense, suddenly relax.

“Yikes,” Jaskier said as Geralt's shoulder was finally exposed. “I think I'll have to cut through a month of grime to even get to the wound. Good thing I brought a water skin.”

Geralt allowed the bard to wash his shoulder, holding still even as the salve stung, and Jaskier was a bit rough with the wrap. It was nothing Geralt couldn't handle. Not to mention, it had stopped bleeding before Jaskier had started, but Geralt didn’t stop him.

Just enjoyed the sensation of being taken care of by another.

“Right, so,” Jaskier stood up now that Geralt's wounds were treated. “I hope you're awake enough because I'm going to ask you to recall _everything_ that occurred with the fight between the harpies and the wyvern.”

“They didn't fight each other.”

“You stood alone, against all the beasts,” Jaskier said dramatically, already having a far-off look, spinning the tale in his head. “A single witcher, only his silver and his wits as three flying monsters each tried to make a meal of him. Fighting bravely not for coin, but to survive.”

“I'm selling their hides.”

“Yes, but there's no contract.”

“I only sought them out for coin.”

“You're making this hard to make heroic.”

“Good.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jaskier said without any heat. They were smiling at each other. Grinning like schoolboys.

They never did talk about it.

When they went to the river to bathe before bed, Geralt fucked him in the river until he was sure Jaskier’s shouting had successfully scared away all the wildlife. Then he carried the bard back to camp, laid him out on the bedroll, and took him once more. If Jaskier finding him and smelling of utter satisfaction while tucked under his chin pleased Geralt, he failed to voice it.


	3. And Yet: Drunken Confessions & Dirty Talk

Geralt held his hands laced under his neck, with his head pushing against them to prevent any movement. He had made a promise not to use his hands, to stay as still as he could. His fingers tightened, nails scratching into the back of his neck as he strained to hold onto that promise. He had faced many things in his travels, but this was proving to be difficult for his self-restraint.

“You can still talk,” Jaskier reminds him as he pauses on top of Geralt. His hands are pressed against Geralt’s bare chest to hold his position.

Geralt grunts, holding back his hips from bucking into Jaskier. If Geralt thought it was torture not being allowed to move when Jaskier was fucking him, it was nothing compared to when Jaskier had stopped. The heat was still surrounding his cock, and Geralt could feel the gentle clenches of muscle around him as Jaskier smirked knowingly. The cheeky bastard.

“You haven’t even broken a sweat,” Jaskier continued, and thankfully started to rock his hips again. Jaskier had the grace of a dancer and was luckily using his talents on Geralt right now. “I’m not surprised – _oh fuck_ , that’s a good spot- but even so, you sho- should- _oh_ ,” Jaskier paused his own words, biting his lip as he quickly found the right angle to please him. It took a few seconds where only the sound of flesh meeting before Jaskier gasped out, “ _Fuck_ , what was I saying?”

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s muscles tensed, his arms shaking, and his fingers dug into Geralt’s chest. Even with full strength, Jaskier could not cause harm to Geralt, but it did leave a tingle as fingernails scrapes his skin. Jaskier’s whole body moved with each thrust, his mouth open with lips swollen from their earlier kisses and his biting in a desperate attempt to stay silent. Geralt’s core thrummed with want to move, to capture, to soothe, _anything_ , but he contented himself with watching Jaskier’s performance. A performance made all the sweeter by knowing Jaskier was getting off on it.

That he was falling apart by the pleasure he pulled from Geralt’s body.

Geralt took a deep breath, his nose filled with cider, lemon grass, and spicy scent of Jaskier’s desire. It mixed well with the headiness of the rented room Jaskier had spent all day preparing. Their scents were all over, the furs they used during the colder days lay beneath him, no doubt cushioning Jaskier’s knees. The tinge of copper from the blood his fingers digging into his own skin.

“You look ready to burst,” Jaskier commented with a breathy voice, his eyes half-lidded. He pushed himself upright, head tilted back, and throat exposed. Geralt’s teeth ached to bite then Jaskier’s eyes found his. “I’m close Geralt. _Please_. Talk.”

“What?”

“Dirty talk,” Jaskier demanded even as his voice wavered in his movements. “I- fuck, I can't. _Need you_.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me your thoughts,” Jaskier pleaded. “Just - _fuck me_ \- what you’re thinking. Whatever comes to mind.”

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, his voice gruff from restraint, toes curling against the pleasure. He would not allow himself to release before Jaskier.

His voice worked as Jaskier started to bite his lip as he continued to ride Geralt’s cock. Geralt felt warmth in his gut at the sight, knowing this was one way he could give Jaskier pleasure. Geralt didn’t hesitate this time.

“The way you move makes me wish to watch you always. The pull of your muscles, the flush across your cheeks, and the way you bite your lips when you’re truly pleased, like you’re doing now. I’d have you every hour of the day and still I’d not feel slated for there would be moments without you on my cock,” Geralt said.

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, his hips pumping faster, his body quivering in pleasure. Geralt could smell and feel the precum dripping from Jaskier’s cock on his stomach, which only made Geralt wish to continue.

“I can feel you shaking with need,” Geralt continued, his voice deepening as their eyes locked. He could tell how much Jaskier liked it. “I’m tortured by not being allowed to taste your mouth when you moan or hold your gorgeous fucking hips that delight in my agony. If allowed, I would hold you down and fuck you until dawn arrives and make you cum with the rising of the sun. Watch the sun paint you in light, showing what I had wrought upon your skin all through the night. Leave marks that linger least you forget my touch and the pleasure it brings you. For all I do is to bring you pleasure, my Jaskier.”

Jaskier had paused, his eyes widen at Geralt’s words with such suddenness Geralt would worry if not for the spike of arousal in the air. Geralt let out a low growl deep in his throat, his muscles tensed across his body as though nearing a fight, and his gut warm with pleasure threatening to spill. As they both stood on the edge, ready to fall, Jaskier’s heart beating like a fluttering bird, Jaskier bit his lip.

Then, with deliberate intent, fucked himself hard on Geralt’s cock. Once. Twice.

Geralt watched as Jaskier curled, his hands holding onto Geralt’s body as his shook with release, his mouth open as a deep moan pulled out for him. Before the first spurt of cum hit Geralt, he surged up to taste Jaskier’s mouth. His mind singing with relief as his arms wrapped around Jaskier’s frame, helping him ride through his pleasure, kissing, biting, and sucking at his lips until Jaskier could open his eyes once more. Until he could kiss Geralt back.

“You,” Jaskier started, cutting off by Geralt’s seeking mouth. Jaskier pulled his head away, tucking it firmly into Geralt’s throat, away from the lips that would silence him. “You, were supposed to wait.”

“Until you came, was the agreement,” Geralt rumbled, nuzzled his nose into Jaskier’s hair. “You came. Now, you’re mine.”

“Impatient bastard,” Jaskier said without any heat. He was far too gone in pleasure.

Jaskier let out a surprised yelp as Geralt pinned him to the ground. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s wrists and held them above Jaskier’s head with one hand. The other, roamed across Jaskier’s side, leading down to his ass, which he took a handful of. Geralt enjoyed Jaskier’s pout.

“How long may I have you?” Geralt asked, even as he rucked up Jaskier’s hips onto his thighs. He was at the perfect angle to fuck the bard deep and hard in a way that was impossible when riding.

“Until dawn, I think you said,” Jaskier commented, his bravado coming back. “That sounded good to me.”

“Until dawn,” Geralt agreed, and began to take his pleasure.

Geralt did not fuck Jaskier until dawn. As much as Jaskier spoke of his sexual prowess, there were limitations to a human body. That did not mean Geralt didn’t push him to his limits, watch as Jaskier came twice more, the last one with tears in his eyes from overstimulation. Geralt held Jaskier after it, smoothing hands running across his back, even as Geralt continued to fuck him. The build up to Geralt’s final orgasm came from that, slow rotations of his hips, rubbing more than thrusting. Their lips chapped and sore from kissing, yet they could not stop.

Jaskier’s desperate cry as he came once more on Geralt’s cock was the final push. Geralt holding Jaskier as close as possible while he spilled his seed deep inside. Even though Jaskier could not get pregnant, nor could Geralt get any person with child, a part of his brain called for it. To stay inside his lover until it took. To be a good mate.

Geralt wondered if that was a Witcher thing. That deep, primal urge, or if it was a part of being male.

Geralt gathered Jaskier against him as sleep pulled them under. They slept until well past dawn.

“There’s a bath in this place, right?” Jaskier asked as he slowly stretched his limbs. “Or maybe a hot spring nearby? That would be nice. I think I may have pulled a muscle in my leg last night.”

“You did. Your left one,” Geralt commented, patting his lap. “Bring it here.”

Jaskier all but collapsed onto Geralt, his leg offered up. Geralt massaged the muscle the way he was taught, and how many of the women in brothels had done to him over the decades. He was careful not to apply too much of his strength as he worked through it.

“Remind me of this next time I get it in my head to try to ride you as long as possible,” Jaskier said. He winced as the muscle was worked, his hand gripping Geralt’s shoulder. “You would think with how much I walk from place to place over the past months, I would have grown some muscles.”

“You did,” Geralt said, his hand moving to grab the new muscle in Jaskier’s calf. “It’s here.” Then he returned to his work on the sore thigh.

“Well, good to know it wasn’t _all_ for naught,” Jaskier pouted. “I’m sure you’re completely _fine_ this morning. No aches, no pains. Hours of fucking, and you look like you had a full night’s rest with a relaxing evening. If there’s one upside to the whole Witcher thing, it’s not waking up sore.”

Geralt hummed, not willing to go into details on how his body wore down. It was true enough that he wasn’t sore this morning. He also had years of fighting monsters in less than ideal circumstances to help build up his muscle and stamina. It wasn’t all down to his mutagens. But he would rather have a more pleasant conversation as this was their last day together before Geralt rode to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this,” Jaskier said as he sat up. “But I do require a bath today. I’m sure even people without your nose can smell me from the next town. Not to mention I’m rather sore in other places you can’t massage out.”

Geralt gave Jaskier a side eye from his position.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jaskier said, grabbing a pillow and swatting Geralt with it. “You’re not to touch my bottom until I’ve had a hot bath, a meal, and a week of recovery.”

“I’ll not touch until spring,” Geralt responded, not bothered by the pillow. He enjoyed their banter, even if he refused to admit it aloud.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s today,” Jaskier said. He laid back down, wincing slightly as he adjusted his body to a comfortable position, his legs still draped over Geralt’s lap. “Are you leaving soon, or in the evening?”

“In a few hours. Need to get Roach ready, and buy supplies,” Geralt switched to the other thigh. It would hold Jaskier in place for a bit longer, and Geralt could bask in his company.

“Any ideas where you’ll head from there?”

“Hmm, not until I talk to the others,” Geralt spied a bruise beginning to form on Jaskier’s hip in the shape of Geralt’s fingers. He had tried to be gentle, but Jaskier had moaned sweeter the harder Geralt held him.

“So, this is where we part until our paths cross once more,” Jaskier was staring at the ceiling.

Geralt made a sound of agreement, fearing voicing anything would give his thoughts away. He wasn’t sure if returning to Jaskier’s side was a great idea after this was over. Distance and time would be the only true cure for his affections towards Jaskier.

He only hoped it worked.

He left closer to evening after they had both bathed. True to his word, Geralt didn’t touch Jaskier’s ass the rest of the day. It was easier in one way, since there was much to prepare, and hard in the way of knowing this was the last time he’d see the bard for months at least.

Their goodbye was a simple embrace and well wishes. Geralt could smell the oils for Jaskier’s lute over his normal scents. Its strong smell stuck with him until he made camp miles away and slept for the night.

The ride to Kaer Morhen was somber, as it usually was. There were patches of activity where Geralt would pass through a town and be asked to take care of a monster. His contracts were rare leading into winter as most monsters, like animals, were getting ready to hibernate. This meant he had to take on every job that came his way up towards the mountains, even as the snow began to fall.

Roach was displeased with him as the roads became ice slick due to their lack of pace. It was partially Geralt’s fault for lingering towards the west with Jaskier for as long as he had, and the cold settled in faster this year. Fall was unusually short which meant the winter may pass quickly as well.

Something Geralt was hoping for. He did not look forward to another winter being locked up with Lambert and Vesemir arguing.

“Geralt!” Eskel called out to him as he arrived up the path. “I didn’t think you’d make it this year. The pass is already treacherous with snow.”

“I stayed near the streams, where the snow melted,” Geralt answered, then smoothly dismounted from the saddle. They warmly embraced, then led Roach to the stables for some well-earned hay.

“Vesemir and Lambert are already at it,” Eskel informed him.

“They couldn’t wait a week?”

“No. You know how they are,” Eskel offered a small shrug. “Lambert’s got a chip on his shoulder over something, and Vesemir doesn’t know when to stop trying to knock it off.”

“Well, at least nothing’s changed,” Geralt pulled his pack from Roach’s saddle, the bottles clinking slightly. “Now, help me smuggle in these bottles before Vesemir spots me.”

“You bring the good stuff?”

“Last job was at a winery.”

“May they all be at wineries next year,” Eskel said with a matching smirk as he helped Geralt sneak the bottles into the cellar.

There was a common rumor that one could not sneak past a Witcher. That any noise within a mile of the Witcher was heard, and it was best to confront the Witcher head on with the knowledge that they heard you already. This helped on the Path when gangs would be less inclined to try to set up a trap for Geralt, but there was more to this than meets the eye.

No one thought of what happens when a Witcher is trying to sneak around another Witcher.

Geralt and Eskel wrapped the bottles in cloth to prevent the glass from making noise as they rubbed against each other. They each carried eight bottles, leaving the other two with the saddle. The plan being, Geralt would appear with the two bottles, a completely safe amount of alcohol to have amongst four Witchers to ease Vesemir and allow them an excuse as to why they smelled of wine. This would prevent them from getting a lecture from the older Witcher.

They may be grown men over half a century old, but old habits ran deep in Witchers.

The sneaking, unfortunately, worked both ways.

“What are you two doing?” asked Lambert, who was leaning against the wall, blocking their way.

“ _Shh_!” Geralt hissed, his ears listening for any sounds of Vesemir. The older Witcher’s footsteps paused.

Eskel nodded towards his arms and Lambert cocked an eyebrow but thankfully was quiet. He came over and shifted a corner of cloth away from a bottle, his eyes lighting up as he spotted the number of bottle necks peaking from the two Witchers’ arms. They all turned towards the main hall where Vesemir’s steps were heading to.

“I’ll cut the old man off,” Lambert said, waving them through. “I call first bottle though.”

“Deal,” Geralt agreed as he darted past.

“Thanks,” Eskel said, quickly on Geralt’s heels. 

Despite Lambert’s slightly overenthusiastic greeting of Geralt a few minutes later when Eskel and him snuck back to the main hall, it appeared that Vesemir did not suspect them. Geralt greeted his old master and father figure as he would any other year. He listened to Vesemir gripe about the crumbling of the outer walls, and saw Lambert already heading to repair it.

Geralt and Vesemir went to the training grounds to run through some basics. It was a routine they had formed over the decades as a comfort. Their bodies moved in tandem in strikes even as Geralt attempted to sped up his movements to outpace the older Witcher. Vesemir seemed to take it in stride and kept pace, even as they both huffed like racehorses at the end. It did not matter that Vesemir was over two centuries old, as he was as spry as Geralt.

Which put Geralt’s mind at ease, as it did every year, that his master would be around for another winter.

“I hear tales of a Witcher called the White Wolf,” Vesemir began as they sat in the shade. “Came from a rather catchy tune they play in taverns. Started hearing it last spring as a matter of fact.”

“Bard thinks I’m his muse,” Geralt said, then took a drink from his water skin. “He follows me from time to time.”

“This is that Jaskier fellow you told me about,” Vesemir mused. “The one who is hated for bedding every noble from here to Sodden.”

“That’s the one,” Geralt answered.

“Well, I see why no one has put a bounty on him,” Vesemir gave him a rueful smile. “Can’t get the damn thing out of my head. Found myself humming it nearly every day for a month.”

“It’s a lie. The story is at least.”

“I figured as much,” Vesemir nodded. “I know you enough to recognize what was honest and what was not. Those who know you, will know the truth of it.”

Geralt wasn’t so sure of that. There were times when people he had known before the songs Jaskier had insisted on singing at damn near every tavern that would question him. As though they could not parse out what was fact from fiction. It was slowly warping his image, his narrative through the continent. Jaskier had made it his mission to erase the Butcher title from Geralt’s name, and with more time, Geralt was sure he would succeed in it. The White Wolf would be a mantle Geralt was known most for and on the people's lips as they called him for services.

But it was based on a lie.

Butcher may have been a title that caused his bones to chill, and Renfri’s blank eyes to flash across his mind, but it was honest. A title earned.

“It’s a good thing,” Vesemir said after a time, drawing Geralt’s attention back to the Witcher.

“What is?”

“The tales,” Vesemir continued. “With so much pain across this world etched by the hatred towards our kind, this at least, is something that I think is good. Whatever good will is brought about by these tales are as fleeting as the songs themselves. But… it is easier on the Path that sings his songs.”

Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew it brought some fortune to him along the Path. Aldermen were more likely to open their purses to a Witcher they’ve sung the heroics of. Even when that Witcher frowned at them and would rather not have to deal with the long-winded stories of how much their coin helped the people around them. It was all for show. However, Geralt found himself with a heavier purse, and beds often given.

He had not thought to wonder what the others would experience.

He leaned against the stones of the fortress and looked out to the mountains. His thoughts settling as his body cooled from training and Vesemir sat quietly next to him. Each Witcher enjoying the small reprieve before winter brought its own set of chores. Before long they were already taking care of their swords, with Vesemir making comments on how Geralt should care more.

Which eventually became a slight bickering match that ended when Lambert complained about being the only one who was fixing the damn wall.

By evening the snow was falling again and the Witchers retired to the main hall with a roaring fire to drive out the cold. Eskel had brought the two bottles of wine along with food for the others. It was a testament to how much the younger Witchers were looking forward to their night of drinking that even Lambert failed to start a fight. Dinner was pleasant then Vesemir stood and grabbed the unopened bottle.

“Next time you wish to sneak past me,” Vesemir warned. “Try to not use the front entrance.”

Geralt and Eskel made frantic eye contact. Their youth was spent being reprimanded by the old Witcher many times for their stunts. But Lambert was already waving him off.

“Duly noted,” Lambert said. “Now go to bed, unless you want to join in.”

“I’m past those years,” Vesemir said even as he tucked the bottle close. “Don’t throw up on anything you don’t wish to scrub the next day.”

With his parting shot, he left the three wolves at the table. It didn’t take long before Lambert had rushed to grab additional bottles and Geralt to down a few mugs full. One of the few times they could all hang out for hours without bickering was being drunk enough none of them could walk straight.

“Alright, now that papa Vesemir is asleep,” Lambert said, pouring another bottle out. “Let’s talk about what actually happened this year.”

“You like to go first?” Geralt asked.

“I was hoping you would,” Lambert said.

“Why?”

“Don’t know,” Lambert gave a shrug. “Might have something to do with every fucking town from here to Nilfgaard singing that stupid song about the White Wolf.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt cursed, then downed his drink to cover himself. He didn’t find the song embarrassing normally, just untrue. But hearing his brothers speak about it, with Lambert giving that stupid ass grin, it did now.

“You’ve heard it, right Eskel?” Lambert asked. “That White Wolf bullshit?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it a couple times,” Eskel relented.

“I mean, we’ve heard it a few times here and there,” Lambert continued, at least being kind enough to offer Geralt the rest of the opened bottle. “But now, it’s every single tavern. That and the one about the Striga.”

“Only thing right about that one was the monster.”

“We know,” Eskel said. “You told us what happened two winters back. Have you heard any news on the Princess?”

“Hmmm, she’s no longer biting anyone,” Geralt said, then took another drink even though his vision was starting to lose focus.

Eskel opened his mouth to speak again but Lambert cut him off.

“Back on the subject,” Lambert said then leaned on the table towards Geralt. A smirk on his face. “Should we call you White Wolf now, or is that only for the peasants?”

“Fuck off Lambert.”

It would be one thing if Lambert was the only one making fun of him. Hearing Eskel snort into his tankard felt almost like a betrayal. It didn’t help that Geralt was already missing the bard and his easy companionship. Their last day together not nearly enough to stop loneliness from creeping into his chest. The wine could not erase it but made it better.

With luck the conversation turned towards Eskel, who had a handful of memorable contracts. A man convinced a baby Drowner was a mermaid, and only after losing three of his fingers did he allow Eskel to take care of the creature. It didn’t matter that Drowners had legs, and a mermaid had a tail.

The Witchers had a chuckle over the fool, drinking more than needed. They had gone through more than a few bottles together, and they had all gone to get more. The argument being if they all went, they could all bring back two bottles. One for each hand.

It had made sense at the time.

They had stumbled their way into the cellar. Well, Geralt and Lambert had. Eskel had passed out on the floor. They had tried to rouse him with kicks to his boots, but Eskel was out cold. Deep snores echoed in the hallway as the two Witchers tried to will their coordination back enough to grab a bottle or two. However, they found out someone had put the bottles on the top shelf, making Lambert must try to lift Geralt enough to grab one.

However, luck was not on their side. Lambert hoisted Geralt too fast, causing him to fall forward and onto Lambert’s back. They toppled over into a heap of tangled limbs while cursing and laughing in equal measures. They sat next to each other, heavily leaning on each other, and heads together.

“Didn’t want that bottle anyways,” Lambert groused. “That bottle can go fuck itself.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, his eyes closing without permission. He might have fallen asleep, but Lambert spoke again.

“You’ve been weird,” Lambert said.

“W-what… what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Usually you’re just a fucking stick in the mud. You’re like my brother, and I fucking love you, you know that right?” Lambert turned his head so they could look at each other, their foreheads pressing uncomfortably together. “Right?”

“You’re a prick, but I love you too,” Geralt said, his hand coming up and patting Lambert on the cheek.

“Right,” Lambert nodded again, one eye closed either in pain or because his vision was swimming as badly as Geralt’s was. “And people who love each other tell ‘em things, right? So, what is it? What’s been bothering you?”

Geralt had to think for a few seconds. His foremost thoughts were on trying not to puke all over Lambert. He didn’t want to clean him the next day. That would be horrible. Lambert complains all the time and Geralt would most likely spend more time arguing than getting work done. The next thought was on what bothered Geralt.

And that led to Jaskier. The bard who followed him around, basking Geralt in praise, and companionship, and sex. Lots of sex. But then he has sex with other people. Geralt did too. That one time they had sex with other people in front of each other when they went to a brothel in Novigard and rented the whole place out. They each fucked women then and had a contest to see how many times they could make the women come. There was a dwarf there too.

Geralt can’t remember why.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

“What?”

“ _Jaskier_ … he doesn’t bother me, but he does, but he _doesn’t_ ,” Geralt said, trying to find words to speak what he felt. He was never made to be a poet or a man of words. That was Jaskier’s playground where he could weave words together in such a way that confused and intrigued Geralt. “We have a thing. Like, a good thing, I don’t deserve it.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Lambert said, pushing Geralt enough to rock him but not knock him over. Their heads came back together, making each groan on the collision. “I – _fuck that hurts_ – I want a bard that sings songs for me. They’re good songs.”

“Fuck the songs,” Geralt grumbled. Then his mind went to the person who sung them. Then to fucking that person. “I like Jaskier. He’s good and he talks too much shit. Gets in trouble with everyone. So many people hate him, but I don't.” There was a pause. “He's pretty too.”

“You in love with him?” Lambert asked.

“I think so,” Geralt answered.

Lambert seemed to consider Geralt’s words going by the frown on his face. If Geralt wasn’t passed the point of reason with drinking, his stomach may have dropped in terror over Lambert finding out. Sex with the same gender hadn’t been a discussion they openly had. All their conquests, the ones they spoke of, were with women. Rejection from strangers was easily brushed aside but his fellow Witchers would hurt.

“Well, why the _fuck_ haven’t you told him?” Lambert asked. “You think he’ll run?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt answered, his head hurting from more than the alcohol now. He had gone through the scenarios before. “He’s young… and full of want for life. I don’t… I don’t think he’d settle for anyone, let alone an old Witcher. Don't want to fuck what we have up. Don't want him to leave because I am being fucking _weird_.”

“That’s hard brother,” Lambert said, his voice slurring worse now as his eyes started to close.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “I’ll be fine though. I’ll get over it soon enough.”

Lambert made a noise that was neither agreeing, nor disagreeing. Merely an understanding. They stayed leaned against one another, and if Geralt felt his eyes water a bit, he didn’t say anything. Lambert didn’t either, but an arm circled his shoulders before Geralt passed out.

They awoke the next morning to Vesemir banging pots and pans together, ensuring the three younger Witchers received their punishment for drinking late into the night. Geralt and Lambert’s heads collided when they awoke, each cursing loudly, holding their heads in pain. Geralt was disoriented when he awoke and for much for the morning. He couldn’t panic over his late-night confession until it was nearing the evening and he was relaxing in a tub.

Then it hit him.

Panic swept through his chest, constricting his lungs, and turning his mind into overdrive. There were a few scenarios to run through, and only a one was a terrible fate. That Lambert, as much of a prick as he was, would tell Jaskier if he ran across the bard. He would delight in telling Jaskier how Geralt was in love with him, and exaggerate the story of him finding out, just to watch the pain Geralt would suffer for it.

Geralt swore violently.

He wished he told Eskel instead. Eskel would keep Geralt’s secret confession to his grave and be a good ear to discuss his feelings over. Unlike Lambert.

Though, Geralt may not have to worry about it. Through dinner, and into another night of drinking, but this time it was moderate, Lambert never spoke about Geralt’s confession. There was light teasing about the songs once more, Lambert singing some of them off-key with far raunchier lyrics, but nothing else. Even still, Geralt couldn’t allow himself to relax.

Lambert was practical, but also an opportunist. He wouldn’t give up an edge so easily.

For a month, Geralt worried about Lambert dropping his secret. It became worse when the snow fell hard enough to trap them all in one room in order to conserve the firewood. They created beds made of thick blanks, each close enough to one another that they could share heat if the temperature became unbearable. Geralt held himself to the outside, with Vesemir next to him.

This would be a great moment for Lambert to start a chat. Geralt couldn’t escape the room, his fellow Witchers, and would have to deal with their comments for better or worse. He waited for the idle chatter to be directed towards him.

But they bid each other night, and that was it. Until.

“Come with me, Geralt,” Vesemir asked as he stood. “I can feel this storm will become much worse before its better. We should carry in another load of firewood while we’re still awake.”

Geralt didn’t quite agree with it, thinking the hefty stack they brought in was more than enough, but he knew better than to argue. Instead, he kicked his blanket off, and smoothly rolled up to his feet. They each bundled themselves into warmer wear, then headed out, while Lambert and Eskel played cards.

They were just out of earshot of the other two when Vesemir turned on him.

“I get the feeling something’s been bothering you,” Vesemir began, oddly forward for him. Geralt was used to him being slightly more delicate about things but the cold often made them more direct. Saved heat.

“Nothing,” Geralt responded. He tried his best to appear his usual self, which only made Vesemir frown.

“I get you all have your secrets, it happens,” Vesemir began. “But whatever it is only appeared after your night of drinking. I found you and Lambert together, each with bruises on your heads. Did you two get into a brawl?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“But it is something.”

Geralt pinched his lips and turned away. It was difficult trying to lie to someone who had raised him since he was very young. Geralt seldomly got away with anything when Vesemir was looking for something. He remembered a lot of evenings trying to relieve the stinging from punishments. Those weren’t exactly fond memories even in his later years.

“I can see this is a sore subject for you,” Vesemir said as he laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, then giving it a squeeze. “Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out.”

“How do you know that?” Geralt asked, his voice quiet.

“Because I know you.”

With their heart to heart completed, Geralt and Vesemir worked on getting more firewood. Even though it was a rouse to get Geralt outside the room to discuss his issue, they ended up needing firewood by the end of the night. Which made Geralt grateful for being pulled aside even if it made him feel as though everyone was aware something was off with him.

Eskel was the nicest about it though. He quietly stood with Geralt from time to time, silently offering his ear. It was something Geralt appreciated about him. There was a steadfast nature about Eskel that even if Geralt didn’t speak about his troubles, he would breathe easier with his brother near him.

Lambert was obnoxious. As usual. But he still hadn’t spoken a word about the confession. It wasn’t until Geralt was leaving for spring that he realized Lambert may not even remember their talk. They each were incredibly drunk at the time and Geralt’s memory of it wasn’t completely clear. Lambert had at least as much to drink as Geralt.

Geralt wanted to laugh or punch something once he realized he may have fretted all winter over something that was never a problem in the first place.

As he made camp outside the mountain pass another realization occurred to him. He was so preoccupied by the others finding out his secret, he had no time to be lonely. Or miss Jaskier. His mind was in a constant state of worry, of panic, that nothing else could enter until he was settled outside Kaer Morhen months later.

It may not have been the way he wanted it, but Geralt had made a stride in removing his affections for Jaskier. The constant need to have the bard occupy his thoughts, the stranglehold he had around Geralt’s heart, it was still there, but faded. Geralt could think of Jaskier without it tormenting him into packing his camp and seeking out the bard.

Geralt leaned against a tree as the sun set for the day. He allowed the beauty of the landscape, the sun painting warm colors across the melting snow, to soothe him. There was a wonder to nature at moments like this and Geralt had failed to enjoy them all winter. A small reprieve was owed to him and when he set off the next day, he would purposefully continue the Path without straying for rumors of Jaskier.

There was scarce work on the road. Geralt found a contract after three weeks for a pest in a basement that turned out to be an echinops. Nasty little creature that shot needles across rooms and appeared to be grass when it stood completely still. Geralt took it out with a lit torch, letting the fire do the work for him. Then a quick flick of his blade to end the poor things suffering. Quick work that earned him a meal and some meager coin. Enough to pay for his next few meals.

That allowed him to travel further towards Kovir, which offered far more coin for their monsters than any other area. Geralt planned on earning enough to fill his purse so he could continue towards the less fortunate areas that couldn’t pay enough for most Witchers to take the jobs. While Geralt felt for their plights, he was spoiled by traveling with Jaskier. The warm beds and meals that allowed him to maintain muscles was a welcome. He found his fights easier when he wasn’t starving.

When he reached Ard Carraigh his plans were sidetracked completely. Geralt found himself wrapped in contract after contract for the next month. His side was barely done healing when he received a contract for a large Drowner nest near Lixela river far to the south. The villagers had come all the way to Ard Carraigh to plead for help. By the time Geralt was able to travel there, the ports were overrun by Drowners.

Drowners fat on the locals.

It had taken Geralt two days to hunt down the bulk of the monsters and destroy their nests hidden amongst the coast. During his third day, attempting to clear the upper river where they appeared to have migrated from, a Drowner caught his ankle to pull him in the water. Geralt had barely survived the encounter due to wearing his heavier armor as he only planned on staying on land.

The Drowner had clawed open his calf before Geralt finally maneuvered enough to thrust his silver sword into the monster’s neck. Then he had to crawl along the bottom due to his weight before finally surfacing. His lung burned on the first breath of air and it took concentration to not gulp in more. He couldn’t afford to cough. He had to listen to for signs of another Drowner.

Which was good of him as another came at the scent of blood in the water and the splashing of Geralt’s struggles. Even with his injury, now that Geralt had firm ground under his feet, he made quick work of the monster.

It wasn’t until Geralt was safely in his camp and a potion down his throat that he allowed himself to linger on what occurred.

He nearly died.

Another few seconds in the water and his lungs would have given out. If the second Drowner came sooner, dragged him back before the surface, or if he was dragged out into deeper waters by the first, he would not be sitting on the log. He would be another victim in a long line for those Drowners. His corpse a dinner for them to spawn more and invade the ports within a year or two. His body may never be found then, and his brothers wouldn’t know what truly occurred to him.

Neither would Jaskier.

Geralt stared at his fire, willing his darker thoughts away. They were of no use to him. Not when they only caused him pain and would do nothing for his wounds. Witchers walked the Path hand in hand with death. They either were dealing out the death themselves or it greeted them warmly. Each time a contract or a monster appeared, there was always a chance that death would finally sink its claws into Geralt.

Still, Geralt did not sleep well for the next few days.

Riding on Roach’s back made the trip easier, but he could not rely on his horse the whole time. She needed rest if she were to carry him as well as his supplies. His leg had healed within a day with the ache disappearing soon after. And yet, sleep was harder to find these days than they were in the cold months of winter. The lack of contracts on his way south did not help either.

During mid-spring Geralt finally broke down enough to pay for an inn. It turned out to be a mistake as he heard the new song Jaskier had made. The Lion Cub of Cintra. His child surprise was born and had celebrated the first year of life. The reminder of both of his stresses drove Geralt to leave the inn without sleeping to venture as far as his legs allowed him.

Another month and Geralt was ready to behead any lord or lady for a decent night’s rest.

Preferably the Countess de Stael, who had made it obvious she had the famous bard Jaskier on her arm. Geralt had to sit as a guard for a nobleman in Aedirn who did nothing but bemoan their loss of a sorceress over a decade ago. Between their complaints and the Countess need to boast about her bed partner, Geralt had grinded his teeth to prevent snapping.

The wine was hardly worth it.

Geralt left before the cock crowed that morn, taking his coin straight to a brothel in order to tire himself enough for a few hours of rest. It only gave him a brief reprieve as his mind could not stop the image of Jaskier below him instead of the busty redhead. A lovely woman who deserved more than Geralt’s grunts and worn attempts at pleasing her. She had patted his head like a child when he left and Geralt had tucked tail.

Having exhausted his usual methods of exhaustion, he went with the less savory. Herbs, potions, mixtures of all kinds, would only grant him an hour or two at best. He did not need more than that on a typical night, and it served him well into summer. When the many months compiled onto his body, slowing him, and he was reminded of his near death by Drowner when he reaction time had slowed enough that a regular human had cut his arm.

That should never had happened.

Geralt dispatched the muggers shortly after but he had to finally admit he needed a full night’s rest at any cost. Even if it meant listening to the stories of djinn trapped in the Pontar river near Rinde, north of Vizima. That put Geralt far to close to where the Countess was however, Geralt saw he had no choice.

He should have stayed away.

The whole thing went downhill quickly as Jaskier, ever full of energy and vigor, was injured. The town of Rinde was a curse upon Geralt who felt he could not breathe until he knew Jaskier was safe. It was easy to keep his calm while he knew a doctor was near. There was no need to panic as that only led to mistakes and wasted time. When Chireadan informed him only a mage could cure the ailment, it wasn’t bad.

When he informed Geralt that Jaskier had mere hours, it was damn hard not to allow the panic to set in.

His race to the mayor’s house was one of the worse trips of his life. Jaskier’s hold onto him was slipping as Jaskier’s strength left. Helping Jaskier off Roach for the second time and hearing his breathing reduced, there was little choice but to carry him. Steady towards his goal of seeking help where he met the sorceress Yennefer.

He did what she asked when she asked. He could do no less with Jaskier’s life in the balance. It was only when Jaskier’s scent changed from panic, still not fear though, and into a calm state, did Geralt’s head clear. That was almost a mistake.

His entrapment in a spell cast by Yennefer notwithstanding, Geralt felt himself drawn to the witch. Her wit, the way she did not back down from him nor anyone. She was like Jaskier in that way, confidence, and spine; however, she was powerful. She could back up her words, her actions with ease.

And Jaskier was fragile.

But so was Yennefer, who nearly died by trying to make herself the vessel for the djinn. 

Perhaps that is why Geralt was drawn into her web when he made his wish.

Though waking to see Yennefer next to him was pleasant, it frightened him as well. To tie himself to yet another person in this world after he had sleepless nights for months due to the two attachments he already made. It was foolish.

And _yet_.

Geralt went to find Jaskier as soon as he left. Hunted the bard down to him drinking away with the elf healer in a tavern a town over. Jaskier had simply nodded to indicate the seat next to him was free and Geralt took it quickly.

“How’s your throat?” Geralt asked immediately, still smelling the bits of iron from the blood.

“Sore, but it’s good,” Jaskier answered without looking at him, then took another drink.

“He will make a full recovery,” Chireadan said. “I was able to examine him earlier today. Another week of resting his voice, and he should be in the clear.”

“A whole week without singing and without my lute,” Jaskier scuffed. “Well, I do have the option to gather my items from the Countess’s home. If they haven’t tossed it all out already, being as I was asleep for a whole week. I don’t put it past that butler. He never liked me.”

“We’ll recover it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s eyes finally found his at that. Geralt held his gaze, ensuring his words were not a slip. He would be going with Jaskier if the bard would have him once more. Geralt felt the touch of Jaskier’s shoe against his own, a gentle acceptance of the olive branch.

“I must bid you both farewells,” Chireadan said as he stood. “I’m sure being so close to Rinde will not do well for my health.”

Geralt hummed, understanding. It would be some time before either were welcomed back into the town. Yennefer’s spell was sure to linger for a while, and Geralt was not looking forward to seeing the inside of a jail cell anytime soon. There was only one matter he needed to take care of on their trip through, and that was to retrieve Roach.

Who had terrorized the patrol who tried to use her in service. Geralt couldn’t hold back his smirk at the news as he stole his horse back from them. He caught up with Jaskier who started his own journey back to the Countess’s home. 

“And there is my fair lady!” Jaskier called out on seeing Roach. He pulled out a carrot to feed the mare. “Did she give them reason to curse the day they ever thought the take her?”

“Of course.”

“That’s our girl,” Jaskier cooed, rubbing Roach’s face as she mouthed at his doublet. “I would expect no less from the mighty companion of the White Wolf!”

Geralt groaned.

It didn’t take long before they recovered most of Jaskier’s things. Geralt had to suffer watching Jaskier plead for the Countess to see him before they informed the bard they had burned his book of poetry at the Countess’s request. Jaskier had not stopped grumbling about that for nearly an hour. Geralt had to stop a passing merchant and purchase a new set of parchment for the bard to cease his gripes.

Jaskier had smiled at him and Geralt was brought back to a year ago. When his gut would flip at the sight of Jaskier being pleased and smelled of it. Of days spent teasing one another until touches became charged. Where clothes were not needed and Geralt’s world would narrow down to the man in front of him.

Jaskier had cocked his eyebrow. An invitation.

Geralt forced himself to look away. He would not be so easily drawn down. Not when Jaskier was quick to fall for another. Not when Geralt felt a longing to return to Rinde to see if a sorceress would welcome him back. When the scent of lilac and gooseberries clung to his skin like a stain.

Not when he couldn’t trust himself.

But he could allow himself some things.

Jaskier combed through his hair as Geralt washed the grime from his body. Geralt kept the water warm with Igni to the sides, which Jaskier knew by now not to touch the tub if Geralt was in it due to the heat. Still, the bard would draw close to Geralt, enjoying the steam that mixed the scented bath salts Jaskier liked so much with the soothing oils that barely held any scent at all that Geralt preferred. Fingers scratching at Geralt’s scalp, lulling him to relax.

Geralt hadn’t realized he was drifting off to sleep until Jaskier nudged him awake. The bard helped pat him dry, then gently set him down into bed, curling up beside him. He could feel the heat rolling from Jaskier and hear the fluttering of his heart. Too quick to be asleep. Despite how tired Geralt was, sleep alluded him as well as his ears honed on his bedmate.

There could be no rest as they laid stiffly beside one another.

Geralt rolled, and tugged Jaskier against his chest, holding the bard close to him. The bard tensed for a moment but relaxed instantly. Their limbs tangled together as they shifted into their sleeping positions within seconds. Jaskier’s breathing had evened out, his heart already slowing as he started to drift.

Geralt’s nose filled with the scent of cider and lemon grass as it pulled him to a restful night of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

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